


Without the rusty music of my machine

by Missy_dee811



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Cooking, Driving, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love Confessions, M/M, Pet Names, Secret Relationship, Stargazing, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy_dee811/pseuds/Missy_dee811
Summary: "The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion." — Albert Camus[Written for Lights On Park Ave - Round 11.]
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48
Collections: Lights on Park Ave





	Without the rusty music of my machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suitofarmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitofarmour/gifts).



> The title comes from Derek Walcott's [In the Village](https://poets.org/poem/village).
> 
> Happy (belated) birthday, my dear.

Tony was lying on the hood of his car. He had taken off his leather jacket, gently folded it in half, and draped it across the windshield so he could rest his arms on the supple leather. He loved a good hide. The way it felt, between his fingers and against his skin.

A new car, new jacket, or new gloves would bring a smile to his face. Durable and personable. Malleable to the wearer. Itself a skin; a cloaking device.

It also reminded him of someone. His mind conjured images of late nights hunched over his worktable, and a pair of freshly stained red gloves in hand.

The someone he was expecting. Any minute now.

Any minute.

If he closed his eyes, he’d run the risk of falling asleep. Anywhere was a good place to rest his head. He had fewer nightmares and didn’t dread what he’d see behind closed eyes.

It was a welcome reprieve.

People often thought, because he was born into opulence, and had a keen and discerning eye, that he couldn’t appreciate simpler things. He was still flesh and blood; not everything was mechanical.

People had one idea of him. Maybe they had met him when he was much younger, still learning about himself and his place in the world. Not that it was an excuse, but it justified the vitriol. He read the tabloids, despite all advice to the contrary. It had been so long, but he could hear the pity in Pepper’s voice.

People thought him entitled and entirely unaware. Conceited, even. It was the first of many blows to land squarely. He was on his way to be a better man when it all happened.

They called him heartless, a harbinger of death. Lost, with shards of metal threatening to end his life. The very heart they thought he didn’t have, broken. Wrecked. 

Maybe they had met him during _that_ year. The year he couldn’t remember, the year he had to piece together by harvesting data — from news articles, interviews, closed circuit cameras, etc. If what he knew about that year was true, he wouldn’t think himself capable of appreciating anything, let alone the simple pleasures in life. He was dealt a hand and played ruthlessly. Justified, though he may have been by the circumstances, it was no excuse.

And nothing about that year, the months leading up to it, and the months thereafter, were normal.

Still, he wasn’t absolved. 

Some were more forgiving, surprisingly. Their forgiveness stirred guilt, deep and unyielding. Another second chance. One he didn’t deserve, not by any objective measure. Nonetheless, it was his. His for the taking.

A younger version of him was guilty of all they accused him of being. Years had elapsed. He’d sacrificed many things on the altar of progress — dreams of a quiet life, dreams of a wife and child. His ideas of legacy had changed. Though his life was shaped by the death of his parents, fighting Howard in hell had freed him. He no longer cared what his father thought of him, or how he felt. He vowed to be his own man, relying on his hands, his keen eye, and his intellect.

He understood the labor involved in crafting things. Honing his skills took time. Time and energy. A drive to create and recreate, each time building on the last.

No two handmade things were the same. There were no duplicates. A work of art was so-called because it is one-of-a-kind, and so he charged handsomely. It would be hypocritical to decry those that did the same. Everyone was a hypocrite, but he wasn’t for this. He knew his services were expensive. He was an affable consultant. Hiring him was a luxury few could afford. Few had his mind or his experiences. Few could offer his advice. Even fewer had taken risks and reaped the benefits.

They wanted his body but none of his scars. The wanted his mind but none of the trauma. He was a commodity.

He couldn’t give them simple answers. There were none. They wanted to sign checks, and for the cash to flow and the stocks to rise. Adamantly, he shook his head. He offered perspective. Negotiations took time. Lawyers would draft contracts, which would be viewed and reviewed. Nothing was final until it was final.

Though many didn’t want to hear what he had to say, soon there was a waitlist.

Tony found it quite funny, people who had decried he was only half the man his father had been, were lining up for a meeting. He was a brand, publicly traded. His well-being correlated with the market.

Tony sat up. The sun was setting behind the buildings. The garage was dark, though there was still light. Night approached but hadn’t yet arrived.

It wasn’t like Steve to be so late. Or, to keep him waiting. _He would’ve called by now_.

Jumping off the car, he grabbed the jacket from the windshield, and rummaged through his pockets, until he found his phone. No calls and seven messages.

Five were from Pepper, one was from Rhodey, and one was from…

_Oh shit, Steve._

**Delayed, but omw** read the message.

Tony wondered who had taught him shorthand and responded with **OK**.

It was odd. He often couldn’t wait. He was always running from a meeting or a conference and to a function. Often, there was a world-ending calamity that needed his immediate attention. 

It didn’t matter how often he lost himself in his work — be it the wires of his armor or the minutiae of a pending contract — or was caught in the uptown traffic, someone, somewhere, would question his whereabouts. It was worse when he was still drinking. No one ever gave him the benefit of the doubt. Someone always wondered if he had been drinking in his penthouse, office, or the nearest bar, having lost track of time.

Before darkness engulfed the garage, Tony jumped off the hood of the car, smoothing his jeans, and turned on the car. The headlights illuminated the space. Tony adjusted the seat so he could rest.

He heard Steve’s bike enter the garage and turn the corner. He threw his jacket on the seat and rushed over to where Steve had parked his bike.

Tony had found the bike. They drove for hours to a small town upstate and paid in cash. The guy told them it needed some work and Tony shrugged it off. He ordered the replacement parts. The bike offered him a distraction and a reason to invite Steve and order takeout. 

“I’m sorry,” said Steve, removing his helmet.

Tony brushed it off.

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking the helmet from Steve’s hand.

Steve turned off the bike and got off. Taking the helmet back, he hung it from the right handlebar.

“Ready?”

Tony nodded. Steve followed him to his car. The headlights were still on and the driver’s door was still open.

“Do you want to drive,” asked Tony.

Steve nodded.

“The keys are in the ignition. Just toss my jacket into the back.”

While Steve did that, he walked over to the passenger’s side, climbed in, and reclined the seat.

“If you’re tired, we can do this another night,” said Steve, looking over to where Tony was resting. His forearm covering his eyes.

“Nope. Now or never,” said Tony.

Steve shut the door and locked the car. Leaning his forearm against the headrest of Tony’s seat, he pulled out of the parking space and out of the lot. Once they were on the FDR Drive, Tony adjusted the seat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to drive,” said Steve.

He and Tony locked eyes for a second before Tony turned to look out the window. They were approaching the Brooklyn Bridge.

 _I trust you_ , Tony wanted to say, but he didn’t say anything.

Steve smirked.

“Don’t worry, you can rest. I’ll wake you when we’re almost there.”

True to his world, Steve shook him awake. The drive was quick: under two hours. It was late and there was no traffic.

“Shellhead, we’re here,” said Steve, turning off the car.

Tony rubbed his eyes. They were in the driveway. The Hamptons. His first home. The house had been cleaned and the kitchen restocked in preparation for their arrival.

Steve was holding open the door for him, so Tony half-jogged to the front door. Steve smiled once they were inside.

“Do you know what’s in the pantry?”

“No idea. Be my guest,” said Tony. He followed Steve into the kitchen and took a seat at the bar.

“What would you like tonight?”

“Carbonara.”

Steve laughed.

“As you wish.”

Steve cooked as Tony chatted. They discussed the usual, mostly work. Once Steve plated the food, Tony followed him onto the back porch. They ate as they watched the stars.

“Feel better, now that you’ve ate,” asked Steve.

Tony smirked and nodded.

“Yeah, I do. Thanks… For everything,” said Tony.

Tony hadn’t noticed he had started to fall asleep until he felt strong arms lift him.

“Shh,” said Steve, carrying him to bed.

He took off his shoes and pulled off his jeans. His jacket was still in the car. Underneath he wore a sweater. Steve didn’t bother removing that. If he overheated, he’d take it off himself. He folded the clothes and piled them onto the armchair. Then, he started to undress.

Tony watched him, quietly.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” said Steve, turning to face Tony.

“Being with you, and being here, is the best thing,” he said.

“Kiss me,” said Tony, as Steve crawled into bed.

Steve ran his hands through his hair and tilted his chin. He kissed him, fiercely, as if it were the first time.

“With you, I feel free,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Tumblr](https://viudanegraaa.tumblr.com/), where you can reblog [this](https://viudanegraaa.tumblr.com/post/624308815236562944/without-the-rusty-music-of-my-machine) post.


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